The baby’s gurgling drew my attention away from the realization that Mama and Hoss might well get hitched before too long, and that in all likelihood I’d be designing a dress that would have made Annie Oakley proud.
Boone’s tiny fingers curled around the flannel blanket he was wrapped up in and the tip of his pink nose peeked out from under the knit hat on his head. “He’s adorable, Raylene,” I said, tossing my portable sewing bag on the sofa.
I held my finger out and he gripped it with more strength than I’d thought possible. His eyes were cornflower blue. He looked at me with such intensity, I had an inkling that he could see everything about me. “Can I hold him?”
She handed Boone over, making sure I had a good grip on him before she let go. “I still can’t believe he’s really here,” she said as she brushed the back of her finger to the side of his face just like I had. There was something about the pudgy cheeks of an infant that just begged to be touched. “I thought I’d lost him for good. I owe you, Harlow.”
Mama’s foot stopped tapping and her shoulders relaxed. She moved to Raylene’s side and slung her arm around her shoulder. “You won’t never have to worry about that happening again,” she said.
Raylene sucked in a few deep breaths, gathering up her composure as she blew them out. “No, I guess I won’t.”
Her voice trembled, just a touch but enough that I took notice. Was it relief that she had her baby boy back safe and sound, or—
My mind zipped back to the thought I’d had when I’d first met Raylene. Had she come to see where Dan Lee had died, or to revisit the scene of her crime?
Boone squirmed. He threw himself backward, catching me off guard.
“Watch him!” Raylene cried.
I slid my hand up to brace his neck and head, holding him in front of me. “What are you doing, little guy?”
His eyes were like saucers as he looked at me and his feet, wrapped in the flannel blanket, pressed against my stomach. I turned my head away, whipping it back around to face him and making an “O” with my mouth.
I’d been hoping for a laugh, but instead his lower lip quivered. “Don’t cry,” I said quietly. “It’s okay. I’m the one who found you in the stable, remember?” I smiled, but Boone didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t look like he trusted me. It was as if he knew I was wondering about his mother and if she could have been the one to push his father to his death.
I looked to Mama for a split second, and in that moment, Boone let out an earsplitting cry.
Raylene surged forward, gripping Boone’s swaddled body and pulling him away from me. “Come to Mama,” she said, turning him around and snuggling him against her chest. “I won’t let anythin’ happen to you.”
A shiver danced up my spine as she stroked his back and cooed, soothing him until he stopped crying. I didn’t know what to believe. Was saving Boone from his father on her list of things she’d do to protect the child, even if it meant shoving him off a balcony?
My head felt full of cotton. Raylene sank onto the sofa and Mama scooted into the workroom and took up hemming one of the dresses hanging on a dress form. I grabbed my sewing bag, pulled out my cloth-covered sketchbook, and flipped to the back. “What did you want to talk to me about, Harlow?” Raylene asked as she draped a second receiving blanket over her shoulder, covering Boone’s head as she nursed him.
I’d spent the last hour thinking that Helen Abernathy might well be behind Dan Lee’s death, but now that Raylene was in front of me, I was back to the most obvious answer. With Mrs. Abernathy, it was all a big blank theory that Dan Lee had been searching for something in the house, but with Raylene and Hattie, the motive was much clearer.
My stomach churned. And if it were true that she’d pushed Dan Lee off the widow’s walk, then a murderess was sitting on my sofa, nursing a baby, and that was more twisted than an Oklahoma tornado.
“Raylene,” I said, sitting across from her on the love seat. “I was at the Denison mansion when Dan Lee died.”
She looked at me, eyes wide. Her lower lip quivered, but she held it together. “I know. I can’t believe you’re okay after that fall.”
That made two of us. “Hattie was there too.”
Boone gurgled, pulling away from her. She stroked his head, helping him latch on again. “I was, too,” she said. “We came together, but when I saw Dan Lee’s truck, I couldn’t go in. I started to, but I . . . I just couldn’t,” she said, her voice beginning to crack with emotion. “So I waited in the car.”
I stared at her, my mind a jumble. She hadn’t tried to hide the fact that she’d been right outside when her ex-husband had been killed. She didn’t lie to give herself an alibi. And I wanted to believe her.
We were silent for a few seconds before Mama scooted out of the workroom, the dress she was hemming for me draped over her arm. “Did you kill him, Raylene? Tell us the truth, now. Did you sneak in, climb those stairs, and push him off the widow’s walk?”
I gaped at her, speechless.
Mama just popped her eyebrows up and shrugged at me. “Well? It’s what you’re beatin’ around the bush about, ain’t it?”
Boone suddenly lurched, pulling free of Raylene again. His back arched, he sucked in a deep, quiet breath, and then let loose a raucous cry.
Raylene had gone pale, but she cooed, trying to calm Boone down. “Shush now.”
“Mama!” I said, finally finding my voice.
But Raylene raised her sad gaze to me before I could chastise my mother any more. “I didn’t do it,” she said quietly. “I didn’t want Dan Lee dead.”
Chapter 22
Mama had finished hemming the dress for one of the fashion show models and finally she and Raylene had gone. I spent the next hour directing all my energy to Josie’s outfit for the fashion show. It was the one thing I knew would help clear my mind and process all the different scenarios surrounding Dan Lee’s death.
I’d exhausted every idea I’d come up with for Josie. I’d designed a sleeveless blouse for her to wear with skinny jeans and flats. I’d used shirring to create a ruffle down the center of the blouse, and a bright magenta gave it a fun, flirty look.
Maybe I was looking at it all wrong. Maybe solving the mystery of Dan Lee’s murder was what would clear my mind. Where Josie was concerned, my charm had been failing me. Which made sense. A single blouse couldn’t turn around whatever she was feeling about her changing body.
I turned to the front of my sketchbook, poising my pencil over the blank page. Waiting for inspiration to strike.
Nothing.
I closed my eyes and pictured Josie in my mind. Olive complexion, lush hair, and curves. The swell of her belly had stolen her waist. That shouldn’t be throwing me off. But it was.
A stack of sewing and fashion magazines was piled on the end of the cutting table. I sighed and grabbed one off the top. Anything for a thread of inspiration.
I flipped through, trying to imagine Josie in leggings and a tunic or in a jacket buttoned at the neck. Nothing seemed quite right.
I just started drawing, hoping something decent would materialize. Several quick strokes of my pencil later, I considered the line drawings I’d come up with. I drew a collar on one, added bell sleeves to another, and scratched out the third one altogether. “That darn stomach,” I uttered under my breath. I needed to just drape it on the dress form.
I went out into the front room of Buttons & Bows and opened the door to Meemaw’s antique armoire. Not too long ago it had held the gowns Mrs. James, Mrs. Mcafferty, and Nana had worn to the Margaret Moffette Lea Pageant and Ball when they’d been barely sixteen years old. Mrs. James had taken hers, and Gracie Flores, who’d worn Mrs. Mcafferty’s, had taken that one. I’d hung Nana’s from a satin-covered hanger that was now on a hook in the far corner of the room.
Now the armoire held carefully folded and organized lengths of fabric I’d collected over the few months I’d been back in Bliss. I’d had to be judicious about acquiring too much s
tuff while I lived in New York. My thimble-sized apartment, shared with Orphie, barely had room for us and our sewing machines. Extra tubs of fabric weren’t manageable.
But now? I ran my fingertips over the folded edges. I could embrace my addiction. When I saw something I loved at my favorite online designer fabric store, Emma One Sock, I waited twenty-four hours just like Meemaw had taught me. “If you still dream about it a day later, then give in to the impulse without guilt.”
And I did.
I pulled out washable silk, letting it fall open. Gorgeous, but not quite right for Josie. She was less high society, more girl next door.
After refolding it and tucking it back into its spot, I let my fingers drift again until they settled on three yards of an artsy sheer zebra print. Maybe . . .
But I hesitated, and then moved on, not convinced.
My hand seemed to move on its own, like fingers lightly touching the planchette on a Ouija board as it spells out words. I didn’t have my own Ouija board, but I wondered if it would be a way to communicate with Meemaw.
The idea vanished as my hand stopped on a linen and metal woven stripe. Completely wrong for Josie. Below it was an Italian wool sweater lace. It would require a lining or layering, and bulking Josie up wouldn’t benefit her silhouette, so I dismissed it.
But I couldn’t tear my attention away from that spot. I worked my fingers between the two fabrics. They dug, almost on their own, as if they were excavating for dinosaur bones at the nearby Fossil Rim dinosaur park.
A second later, I pulled out three yards of a colorful viscose tweed from India. Although it looked like a silk tweed, the fabric was softer and had more drape. Christmas red, a bright evergreen, citrine, yellow the color of the North Star, lilac, and bits of black were woven together with a beautiful hand-loomed look.
I’d snapped up the designer fabric in Dallas, no clue what I’d make with it. But I’d known then that I had to have it. Holding it now, I could see Josie wearing an open, comfortable and fun, yet elegant, jacket made from the nubby tweed. I laid it over the love seat, then turned back to the armoire for a solid fabric for the skirt. It took some digging, but finally I found a complementary warm red poly/viscose/spandex blend, ideal for a pencil skirt. With a stretch panel, it would give her a clean, sleek silhouette, but it would have enough stretch to be comfortable. A black knit shirt underneath would elevate the whole look. It was perfect.
The challenge would be crafting a well-fitting jacket in just a day and a half. For a pregnant woman. Oh boy. I knew I was finally on the right track, but I had to get started, which meant I needed to call Will.
Pronto.
After four rings, he picked up, his voice all cowboy gravelly as he said, “Hello?”
But I had no time to think about how the one word slipped under my skin and made me feel warm all over. “I need your stomach,” I blurted.
“I knew it,” he said. I could hear the smile through the phone connection, as if he could read my mind.
“What did you know?” I asked as I riffled through the armoire, searching for the black knit, finally finding an entire stack of T-shirt material. It paid to have what amounted to my own personal store; no need to waste time with a trip to a fabric shop.
“That those situps I do when I’m bored would pay off eventually.”
I stood up, holding the black fabric to my chest. Heat rushed to my face, but I managed to sound indignant rather than embarrassed. “Not your stomach, Will Flores,” I said. “Santa’s belly. The insert I made. I need it.”
“Cheating on me with another Santa?”
“With a pregnant woman. Josie. I need to drape a jacket, and for that I need to make the dress form pregnant. Which means I need the Santa belly. Can you bring it by?”
“Anything for you, darlin’,” he said.
I smiled to myself. The first time he’d called me that, he’d showed up at 2112 Mockingbird Lane, thanks to Meemaw, and I’d ended up chasing down Thelma Louise in the front yard. It had rankled me like no tomorrow then, but it had grown on me. A “darlin’” from Will wasn’t like a “darlin’” from some swaggering, tobacco-chewing cowboy down at the honky-tonk. No, it was meant just for me, and there was something sweet about that.
The doors to the armoire gently swung back and forth, the creaking from the hinges sounding like a satisfied laugh.
Meemaw.
I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was here. “I admit,” I said to the empty room, “you were right.”
The squeaking of the hinges changed to “Yep, yep, yep.”
I laughed, feeling calmer than I had in days. I hardly felt any aches from my fall, my scrapes were healing, and I was beginning to think that my charm of helping other folks discover their desires might actually work for me, too. “Meemaw, you are incorrigible.”
The pages of the magazine I’d left on the workroom table fluttered until the glossy fell open. I knew Meemaw’s MO by now, and while a Ouija board might be easier, this was more fun.
I laid the phone on the coffee table and went to the workroom. Stitch was open to an article called “Ruffle Love.” Inset boxes featured a little girl dressed in a chocolate mint ruffled shirt, another in a red-and-white candy cane ruffled skirt, and a third showed a subtle gray scarf in dark and light gray. The captions talked about the playful nature of ruffles, about letting go and just having fun, and about making a statement with color choice.
I scanned the pages again. What was Meemaw trying to tell me?
My gaze drifted back to the precious candy cane skirt, then to the scarf, and an idea surfaced. I’d asked Libby Allen, Gracie Flores, and Holly Kincaid to be Santa’s helpers at the Winter Wonderland festivities. I’d already made them festive holiday outfits for the fashion show. Libby’s mom had taken them out to find red tights and Santa hats, but the outfits just didn’t feel complete for elves. But now . . .
I had the ruffling foot for my Baby Lock serger sewing machine. I could whip up three whimsical scarves like the ones in the picture, using red and white fabrics.
“Great idea, Meemaw,” I said, wondering for about the millionth time just how she knew what I needed when I didn’t even know.
God love her.
I marked the page with a scrap of fabric, closed the magazine, and went back to my sketchbook. In just a few minutes, I had the rough drawing of the pencil skirt, the fitted knit top, and a cascade jacket with wide flap lapels and a curved hemline.
And best of all, I knew in the very center of my core that this was the right outfit for Josie. No more guessing.
With the elf scarves, this outfit, and Will’s Santa suit, I’d be up to date and—
“The newsletter!” It had completely slipped my mind.
I whipped around at the sound of the front door closing. I hadn’t heard it open, and darn those bells, anyway. They only worked when they wanted to.
Will came in carrying the Santa belly. “You okay, Cassidy?” he asked.
If there was one thing I was not, it was a complainer. Meemaw always said that come hell or high water, the Cassidy women did whatever they said they would. So no matter what, I would get everything done.
She’d also said that only a fool cowboy squats with his spurs on. I hadn’t ever been real sure what that meant, but I suddenly had an inkling. If I’d gotten myself in too deep with my commitments, it wasn’t nobody’s fault but my own.
So. No throwing a hissy fit and stomping on it.
I gestured to the yards of vivid, multihued tweed lying over the back of the love seat. “Just fine,” I said. “I finally figured out what I’m going to make for Josie to wear in the fashion show, is all.”
“Uh-huh.” He angled his head off to one side, considering me. “And I have some primo ranchland in West Texas I’m selling for a cool ten million.”
I stared at him. “It’d take ten acres to graze one cow over there—” I stopped when he smirked, and it dawned on me that he’d been poking fun at me. “Okay, maybe I’m not
just fine, but I’ll be fine just as soon as I get Josie’s outfit made.” And created the three ruffled scarves I was now determined to do . . . and finished the Santa dolls with my class . . . and got the newsletter done and sent out so we actually had people show up to the Winter Wonderland event . . . and . . .
“Cassidy.”
My attention snapped back to the present. Will was looking at me like he’d said my name a few times. “Thanks for bringing the belly back,” I said, closing my sketchbook and moving it next to the stack of magazines. I stopped short. The issue of Stitch was open again—to the same article on ruffles. But I’d closed it . . .
Letters seemed to lift off the page like 3-D images. Let go. Have fun. Love.
My breath caught in my throat as I pieced together what Meemaw was trying to tell to me. This was her message. It hadn’t been about the ruffled scarves, although that was a nice perk—it had been about her playing matchmaker with Will and me. Again.
“It’ll happen if it’s meant to, Meemaw,” I said under my breath.
“What?”
Will’s voice brought me back again.
“Just talking to myself,” I said, turning to see him watching me, a curious tilt to his head. Gracie stood next to him. I did a double take. “Hey, Gracie. I didn’t hear you come in.”
She grinned at me. “That’s because I opened the door real slow so the bells wouldn’t jingle.”
“Really,” I said, nodding as if she’d pulled off a trick worthy of Houdini. But inside I was pretty sure that Meemaw was the one playing tricks.
“You have a lot on your mind, Cassidy,” Will said, handing me the fake belly. “We can help, you know.”
One thing about the Cassidy clan was that we relied on each other, but didn’t often let other folks into our circle. It was easier to protect our secrets that way. But slowly and surely, our circle was growing. Nana had married Granddaddy, of course, and it had lasted—the one Cassidy woman to stay with a man since forever.
Mama had let Hoss McClaine in and they were as cozy as two coon dogs sleeping on the front porch. Josie and Madelyn had become my closest friends back in Bliss, and Gracie was like a . . . a . . . well, truth be told, I didn’t know what she was like. A sister? A cousin? A daughter? Maybe a little of each. She was someone I liked to be around . . . and have around.
Deadly Patterns Page 16
